


flowers

by Insomnia_Productions



Category: Original Work
Genre: 'a taxi an old enemy and christmas day', Hey, I'm really proud of this so far, Mystery, So here we are, Social Anxiety, Stalking, and give him a yandere stalker, because naturally my twisted af mind took that and decided, but it just has to be lower-case, flower meanings matter, friendship at some point?, mostly mystery and suspense though, my friend hates me for not capitalizing the title, plus 'receiving flowers from a secret admirer', seriously I did so much research for this, suspense?, that sounds fun, this all stemmed from a last-minute writing prompt at school, who knew flowers could be threatening, why not take a precious guy with social anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7497441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insomnia_Productions/pseuds/Insomnia_Productions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first is a stalk of heather, lying on his doormat on Christmas Eve. White, for wishes that come true. A white card, his name in green calligraphy taking up one side. Unsigned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flowers

The first is a stalk of heather, lying on his doormat on Christmas Eve. White, for wishes that come true. A white card, his name in green calligraphy taking up one side. Unsigned. 

It strikes him as odd because an unsigned card always is, but also because people don’t usually send flowers to men, and even if they did, he isn’t the sort to have flowers sent to him.

He leaves it on the mat and closes the door, and then opens the door a moment later and picks it up again to place in a cup on his kitchen table. He forgets about it soon after, losing himself in warm chocolate and warm Christmas music, and a tablet with a half-finished illustration for a fairy tale glowing out of the screen. He keeps his phone on a charger by his side, half expecting it to ring, half not. 

Half wanting it to ring, half not.

 

.

 

The second is a bundle of gloxinia, lying on his doormat on New Year’s Day. Wavy, light purple petals with white tips, for love at first sight.  A white card, his name in green calligraphy taking up one side. Unsigned. 

He stares at it for a long time. The flower, with its amourous meaning. The card, in the same handwriting as the last. Absentmindedly, he thinks that it’s nice, the handwriting. He puts the flower in the cup with the other. They are strange, certainly, but at the very least they bring some color to his grey apartment.

 

.

 

The third comes a week later, on Tuesday. Two camellia blooms. Pink, for longing, and white, for affection. The same white card, the same green calligraphy. His breath comes out white in the cold, and he shivers. 

He doesn’t take the flowers inside, this time. He leaves them lying outside his apartment, and when he returns the next day, they are still there, brown on the edges and limp from the cold. They stay there until Sunday, when he opens the door to see a single carnation. Yellow, for disappointment and rejection. 

The heathers are still in the cup on his table. He strokes them, just once, and looks back at the closed door, at the carnation’s shadow spilling across his floor from under the wood. It will be the last one, he is sure.

It will be the last.

 

.

 

Another week passes before the fifth comes. A gladiolus bloom, for insistence of sincerity, and a jonquil, for the desire of requited love. 

He throws the flowers away, and leaves a message of his own: a carnation. Striped, this time, for refusal. And a hydrangea. Blue, for apology. 

Then he sits on his couch with his tablet, and tries to stop himself from glancing up at the door.

 

.

 

On Friday, he leaves his apartment to share his drawings with the author of the children’s book he is illustrating. He wishes, wishes that these interactions could take place via email, but no matter. He’s still alive, and his breaths grow steadier with every step closer to his apartment, erratic heartbeat slowing as his door comes into sight. And then he sees it, and the writhing twists in his stomach return in full force. 

White paper. Green calligraphy. Unsigned. 

And a primrose the color of sunset.  _ I can’t live without you _ . 

 

.

 

He keeps to himself. He doesn’t have friends or family. There is no one who could feel so strongly about him, no one who knows him well enough to make such a claim. 

There is only the one. 

There is only the call, anticipated and not, yearned for and not, that never comes. 

.

 

_ I can’t live without you. _

 

.

 

He waits, and there is nothing. The primrose sits for eight days, and then disappears, and the mat remains bare. He thinks it’s over, feels his muscles loosen every time he opens the door to nothing. 

The heathers wither in their cup. He throws them away, and the apartment is grey again. It’s drab, but he likes it this way. Colors have always felt intimidating to him; too loud, too open, to blatant in their meanings. The absence of color is quiet, reserved, secretive. The absence of color is safe. 

 

.

 

Three weeks to the disappearance of the primrose, he stops checking his doormat. 

 

.

 

On Wednesday, he looks in the fridge and has no milk. Slowly, he pulls on a brown coat and a blue scarf. He stands with his hand on the doorknob for five minutes. Breathing. And then he opens it. 

There is a rose on his doormat. Coral, for desire. A single bloom, for a promise of continued love. 

He does not buy milk. 

 

.

 

On Saturday, one week later, there is a violet. Blue, for faithfulness. He closes the door and does not open it again until Thursday.

 

.

 

Monday yields a water lily, floating in a fishbowl on his doormat. Resting on its pollen is a rolled piece of paper, a segment cut out of a magazine:

 

**Pisces**

**February 19 — March 20**

 

**Soulful and withdrawn, your flower is the water lily, floating gently on the surface, but hiding roots that run deep underneath. Pisces this week are encouraged to step out, for you may encounter one who loves you in secret. The stars favor pisces this week, so reach out to one you wish to see, and you will not be disappointed.**

 

His eyes roam over the paper and stick on one line.  _ February 19 — March 20.  _

His birthday is on the twenty-eighth of February. 

 

.

 

_ One you wish to see. _

 

.

 

He doesn’t have a ‘Favorites’ list in his phone, doesn’t have enough numbers saved to need one. He tries to avoid voice calls, when he can, but there is one number that has been frequented more than the others. Once, it flooded his ‘Recents’ list:  _ call from, call from _ . All received. All taken. 

It has been over a year since the last time that number appeared in his ‘Recents’, over a year since the last time that name flashed on his screen at the most inconvenient and yet most welcome moment. 

He does not dial. 

 

.

 

On Thursday he has another meeting with the author, in a café this time. He arrives early and hides in a bookstore across the street until he sees her enter, sit down, and order before he goes to greet her. She is young, but older than him, perhaps in her late twenties. She is pretty, too; dark auburn hair and almond eyes, pixie ears and a mysterious smirk. The perfect face for the back of a book of twisted fairy tales. After sipping on the hot chocolates she ordered for two and discussing the book’s cover, they split the bill half and half, and internally he thanks her for keeping it short. He rides home on his bicycle, and thankfully there is no one in the elevator with him, and no neighbors calling out greetings in the hall. He makes a sandwich for lunch and begins coloring an old sketch on Photoshop. 

It’s a good day. 

 

.

 

He does not open his door on Friday morning, when his neighbors come knocking, asking in their bright voices if he'd like to come with them to the History Museum. He keeps all the lights off and sits very still, and when they leave he lets out a sigh of relief. 

His hands light up in pain when he picks up his tablet’s pencil, muscles screaming, so he wraps them in bandages and watches an old movie on his laptop instead. 

In the evening, he makes pasta, but discovers he has no cheese. 

The neighbors have cheese. 

He knows he will not ask, will not even try. But, just for a moment, he humors himself. He walks out of the kitchenette and towards the door, telling himself he intends to open it, and then he does. 

On the doormat is a hyacinth. Yellow, for jealousy. Next to it is an envelope. White paper, green calligraphy. He picks it up. 

Inside is a photograph of a woman with dark auburn hair tucked behind pixie ears. It looks like the author, but he cannot be certain because her eyes have been gouged out with a blunt pencil. 

Or maybe that makes it more certain. 

 

.

 

Brown coat. Blue scarf. White bandages starting at his wrists and ending halfway up each finger. He grips his bicycle but his hands shake and he can't unlock the chains. Instead he abandons the attempt and stumbles into the street. It's late, almost ten, but he finds a taxi and almost falls in, and his mouth stammers an address before his mind catches up. Then the taxi is moving, the city lights a glowing blur outside, and he rests his head against the cool window and closes his eyes, hoping the face that flashes before them won't turn him out into the darkness. 

 

.

 

Stumbling feet on carpeted stairs. Green, with brown diamonds. Blue scarf tracing invisible lines between them. Shaking hands. Shaking breaths. Ocean eyes spilling ocean water. 

Oak door, closed. Brass number, 25. White doorbell, stained with two fingerprints, one blue and one gold. Fingers fumbling over it. A single ring, low and resonating. Footsteps.

Oak door, open. 

 

.

He looks into wide amber and his vision blurs, and then there is only green and brown, and bandaged hands trembling on the floor, pale colors spotted dark with the droplets of fear leaking out of his eyes.

 

.

 

He sits on a green couch, holding a green cup of hot chocolate with a pink mini-marshmallow. His glasses, big and black and perfectly rectangular, slip down his nose, but he does not move to push them up. The parrot, green and orange and tan, rocks on her porch. Her left leg is bare of its customary ribbon; it has been more than a year since she last saw a secret message scrawled in his handwriting. He wonders if she still remembers the route to his bedroom window. 

This apartment would not be forgotten, if she were his bird. This apartment is bright and loud, splashed in green and orange and red, looking as much a parrot as the bird. The absence of color is comforting to him. But this room, this kaleidoscope room, is comforting, too. 

The amber is no longer wide, but narrowed and confused, arms crossed, watching him almost analytically. There is space on the couch—he does not take up much space, hunched in one corner—but the number that no longer frequents his phone does not sit. 

He will have to explain. The amber is dark and clouded, not bright and shining like he remembers, and he knows he will have to explain everything. Still he does not speak, only holds his cup and looks down at his broken reflection between strands of dark hair. 

When the liquid is gone, the cup is lifted from his hands and set aside. He can feel hesitation tangible in the air, and then the couch dips and a tan arm covered by tawny cotton settles over his shoulders. 

 

.

  
In a room full of color, with feathers and amber as witness, and an arm tightening around him with every word, he starts with a stalk of white heather and lets his despair tumble from his mouth, halting and hesitant, like a petal in the wind.

**Author's Note:**

> aaaahhhhhh I built this up for myself and now I have no idea how to continue! 
> 
> If 'The Ocean' is him, I was going to make part ii be 'The Amber' and be narrated by the friend but I have no idea where to go with this mystery but I can't let go of this idea and it's killing me 
> 
> but comment if you like something and if you have any thoughts on how I can continue this, please do tell me!


End file.
